


Spectre's & Splinters

by ImmortalEcstasy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20 doesn't exist, 5 Times, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Aid, Fluff & Angst, One-Shot, POV First Person, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Reader-Insert, Semi-established relationship, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmortalEcstasy/pseuds/ImmortalEcstasy
Summary: Five times Dean broke into your bedroom in the middle of the night, and the one time he didn’t make it.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Spectre's & Splinters

**2004**

I’m in the blurred line between consciousness, that moment that happens right before you go to sleep, and you can never remember it the next day when you wake up. But I remember this one, because I’m jolted out of it by the sound of my bedroom door slowly opening with a loud whine. My hand is under the pillow, my knife in my hand, I’m trying not to react.

Footsteps come closer, they’re gentle – careful – but the night is so still that I can hear them, even over the pounding in my chest and the thrumming in my ears. I lunge.  
“What the hell?!”  
I recognise the gravelly voice, feel a hand catch my wrist to still the blade. My hand goes slack, and the knife falls onto the bed.  
“Dean?! What the fuck are you doing?”  
I can make out a grin in the faint light coming from the streetlamps outside, muted by my flimsy curtains.  
“You told me to pop by whenever I was passing through.”  
“I didn’t tell you to break into my house!”  
“Well, no.”  
He looks good, actually it’s infuriating how good he looks.  
“Nice reflexes though.” He says, picking up the knife and brushing his thumb along the point, testing its sharpness.  
“Yeah, you too.” I reply sardonically, pulling back the covers to get out of bed.  
“Oh, no, don’t get up.”  
“I hate you.”  
“I know you do.”  
I shake my head at his cheek and push him towards the hall. Grabbing my dressing gown from the back of my bedroom door on the way.  
“Ah, c’mon Y/N…”  
“Kitchen.”  
The fact I’m not throwing him out the house seems to sooth him, and he bounces willingly down the stairs, not bothering to turn on the lights as he navigates my living room and disappears into the darkness. I follow him, fumbling for the light switch so I can see where I’m going. His oversized leather jacket is hanging up by the door, his boots tucked neatly next to mine. When I make it to the kitchen he’s already pulling two mugs out of the cupboard, and now that he’s in the light I can see that he’s hurt. It seems like my stabby-greeting wasn’t his first run in with a knife this evening.  
“Your shoulder.”  
“It’s fine.”  
It doesn’t look fine. His grey t-shirt is stained reddish brown with drying blood, the fabric is torn at the shoulder, and I can tell by the way he’s making our drinks with only one hand that whatever wound is hiding beneath the wet fabric is hurting him.  
“Can I take a look?”  
He tips his head back and groans half-heartedly.  
“Really? I’m fine Y/N. Leave it.”  
“Then don’t break into my house when you’re bleeding.” I offer, pulling out a chair with my foot and crossing my arms like an angry mother. “Sit.”  
He ignores me, and I stay silent while he finishes making us both drinks. It’s when he goes to pick them both up and hisses in pain that I repeat myself, and he sits.

He lets me peel back his shirt and peer at the horror beneath. It’s gruesome looking, but it doesn’t look deep – a slice, rather than a stab. I don’t have the right medical supplies to really do anything. There’s some plasters and some off-the-shelf painkillers under the sink but I don’t think they’ll do much good here. Still, a girl can improvise.  
“What’s the verdict doc?”  
“That you’re an idiot. What happened?”  
“Poltergeist.” He answers quickly, with a stupid grin.  
“Uh huh.” I shake my head and hand him his coffee before setting out on a hunt through my cupboards.  
“Take your shirt off.” I tell him as I rummage around.  
“Yes ma’am.”  
I roll my eyes, and then have a eureka moment when I find what I was looking for at the back of my junk drawer. When I turn back to face him he surveys my hoard unenthusiastically.  
“What? If you wanted proper treatment you should have gone to the ER.”  
“It needs stitches, sweetheart. I don’t think duct tape and a tea towel is going to cut it.”  
“I’ve got vodka too.” I protest, showing him one of the bottles I was holding before taking another glance at the cut.  
“You want me to stitch it?”  
“No, I wanted cuddles. But if you want to play nurse, you have to play properly.”  
“I don’t know how.”  
“I’ll talk you through it.”  
I blanch, “We can just cuddle.”  
He laughs, and sips at his coffee. I offer him the other half-empty bottle I found with the vodka – bourbon. He nods and I unscrew the cap, topping up his coffee and then doing the same to my own mug until it’s almost brimming over.

While I hunt for the little sewing kit my grandmother gave me while I was still in school, he pours vodka over the wound and starts mopping up the dried blood. The interference reopens the wound and I see fresh blood make its sluggish way down his chest. I find the kit and set it down on the table with shaky hands, pulling up another chair so it’s right next to him.  
“Okay, what do I do?”  
“You have a drink.”  
I take him at his word and slug down half of my whiskey-infused coffee in three deep gulps.  
“That’s my girl.”  
“Okay, okay. Now what?”  
“Thread the needle…”

I’m fine with his instructions – including more whiskey drinking – up until I have to stick him with a needle.  
“You don’t have to.” He says gently, taking pity on me. It’s the most genuine I have ever heard him sound, and it’s that, more than anything else, that makes me say:  
“No. I can do it.”

And I do. I don’t do a particularly good job, but when I’m done he’s back in one piece and all my whiskey is gone.  
I wash my hands, and then look at the clock. I didn’t check the time when he arrived, but it’s early morning now, my alarm will be going off in just over an hour.  
“Bed?”  
“Sounds good.”

  
**2005**

I wake up, and in my groggy state it takes me a moment to realise why. My showers running. I’m more curious than scared, what kind of burglar hops in the shower first? I rub at my eyes and head to the bathroom, not bothering to pick up the knife under my pillow. My hand hovers on the doorhandle and then I backtrack down the hall, down the stairs, and turn on the light.

There’s a big leather jacket hanging up, a pair of boots on the floor. Though they’re not tucked up neatly beside mine, and one is on its side. As if they’ve been kicked off. I can see him in my minds eye, breaking in (again), and kicking off shoes, hanging up his jacket. Last time he was here I’d had to wipe down the blood off my kitchen table. Last time, he’d walked straight into my bedroom. What had he been up to that required a shower first? I examine his jacket for clues but find only the lingering smell of booze and smoke. Until I touch it, and my hand comes away bloody.  


I hear the water shut off, and head back upstairs. I see a brief glimpse of him disappear into my bedroom and follow after him. Almost colliding with his back.  
“You’re not in bed.”  
“No, some random thug broke into my house and used my shower. It’s the kind of thing you don’t tend to sleep through.” I say to his bare shoulder blades. He turns to face me; his hair is spikey and dripping. He’s got a towel around his waist, the weird necklace he always wears visible on his bare chest.  
“Sorry about that. I figured you’d be mad if I got blood on the sheets.” He looks younger than when I last saw him. “It wasn’t mine.” He clarifies as my eyes sweep over him, searching for injuries. Perhaps it was the absence of pain, or the towel-ruffled hair, I don’t know. He hasn’t got all the blood, there’s still some behind his left ear. But I don’t say anything, I don’t want to know anything.  
“Good.” I tell him, not bothering to ask whose it was. For all my strengths, Dean Winchester was my weakness. I would be horrified at any other man breaking into my house, regardless of whether they’d been sliced with a knife, or were drenched in so much of someone else’s blood they had to shower. But with Dean, it’s almost expected.  
“You could knock. Instead of breaking in.”  
“I didn’t want to wake you.”  
I raise my eyebrows and side-step him, climbing back into bed. He hovers.  
“Well, come on then.”

He doesn’t hesitate. I hear the towel drop and feel the bed dip as he slides in next to me. Winter is coming, and I’m already in my thick winter pyjamas, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold as his naked body curls up behind me, one muscled arm thrown around my waist. I hum as his nose nuzzles at my neck. Tip my head to give him more rein. He takes it, like I knew he would. His soft lips press against the side of neck, travel up to behind my ear, strain to reach my jaw. Each kiss is punctuated with an undone pyjama button, and when I turn my head to let him kiss me, the meeting of our lips is punctuated by the bow of my drawstring bottoms falling away.

I half-expect his hand to be in my pants in an instant, the way he acts sometimes has him coming across as that kind of macho-bullshit instant gratification kind of guy. But that’s all it is, an act. Instead, his hands are on my hips, then in my hair. Pulling me so close it hurts my neck. I want to twist round, to face him, but I’m locked by the weight of his body. I can feel the wetness between my legs soaking into the fleecy fabric of my bottoms and I’m too warm, I don’t want pyjama’s and blankets. The heat of his body is all I need. I rock my hips back and whine against his lips, begging him without words. I try to get my hands between us, to get myself out of the pyjama’s. He groans and releases me, helping me get out of them with desperate tugs. I’m free of his mouth, but still dizzy with arousal. I kiss the scar my clumsy first aid has left on his shoulder, taste the water droplets left on his skin, smell my own floral shampoo in his hair. I explore him with my hands, my mouth, tongue, teeth, until he’s rutting against my leg, desperate for friction.

I mount him easily, so slippery with need that he doesn’t even need to position himself. We both cry out as I sink down onto him, taking his face in my hands to taste his mouth again as I bounce. Gasping into his mouth as he goes deeper and deeper with every erratic thrust until I’m just holding on for the ride. His hands are in my hair, keeping me close and keeping it out of the way, and as my climax hits me I can feel my hair being torn out by the roots. He pushes me off of him, and I watch in an orgasm induced haze as he comes on my belly, my name on his lips. We clean up with my pyjama bottoms (they’re the closest thing to hand) and he flops back down beside me, scooping me up so I’m pressed into his side. My head on his shoulder. I feel his lips brush the top of my head as sleep takes me.

“You can’t stay?” I ask when I’m woken up the next morning by his warm body leaving my side. I stretch my arms above my head, feeling the muscles in my back straining. It’s cold out of the sheets, and I start looking for my pyjama top.  
“There’s a hoodoo thing in New Orleans I have to take care of.”  
I hum, and he grins at me, scooping my top off of the floor and throwing it to me. “What?”  
“A hoodoo thing, a poltergeist, before that it was a werewolf, what’s next? A Vampire?”  
“Vampires aren’t real.”  
“Oh and werewolves are?”  
He leans over and kisses me, and I melt.  
“Yep.” His eyes linger on my breasts and I button my top back up, and when I catch him looking, he throws a cocky wink my way. “See you later.”

**2009**

It had been years, I had moved to a new house, changed jobs, but I knew. The moment I woke up, I just knew.  
“Dean.”  
I reach over and turn on the bedside lamp, and there he is. He looks defeated, like the last four years had been the hardest of his life. The fingers on his hand are twisted at odd angles, and I still don’t have a decent first aid kit.

I’m out of bed and by his side before he can even say hello. His hug is fierce, desperate, and I know that whatever brought him to me tonight was emotional pain, and not the broken bones in his hand.  
“Okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.” I soothe, stroking his back and holding his face into my shoulder. His body begins to shake, and I can’t fight back my own sympathetic tears. I don’t know how long we stand there, but he can’t be comfortable, he towers over me and his back is bent awkwardly. My legs are shaking from being on the tips of my toes.  
“Let’s see what we can do about your hand.” I coax, pulling him from my bedroom and back down the stairs.

There are so many things to _notice_. He looks exhausted, like the weight of the world in pressing down on him. His eyes are like an old war veteran’s, and not a man approaching his thirties. His necklace is gone.

I have nothing to splint his hand with, and eventually settle on a popsicle stick. I go to the freezer and dig out a strawberry split. I remove the wrapper and hand it over to him. He takes it without question and pops it into his mouth.

When he’s finished, and I’ve found a t-shirt I don’t like and a bottle of single malt that’s probably too good to waste – I take the lolly stick from him and put it in a cup of boiling water to try and remove the sugary stickiness.  
“How’d you find me?”  
“Didn’t you want me to?”  
“I did. None of your numbers were working, so I left a letter for you with the new owners. I didn’t tell them there was a chance you’d break in though, thought it might put them off the sale.”  
“I didn’t get your letter.” He sighs heavily.  
“You didn’t—”  
“I didn’t break into your old place either, don’t worry.”  
I let out a relieved little laugh, but it dies quickly. He’s different. There’s less of an ‘act’ with him now, like he’s more comfortable in his own skin, but there’s so much pain there, so much weight, that I miss the cheeky little bastard I’d known.  
“So, what was it this time? Another werewolf?”  
The looks he gives me is so defeated that I regret speaking instantly. I stand up and busy myself checking to see if the lolly stick is sterile yet – as if I would be able to tell.  
“I lied to you last time – well, I didn’t lie. I was wrong.”  
I try to think of what was said, but nothing comes to mind. “Oh?”  
“Vampires are real.”  
“I see.”  
“Angels too.”  
I nod, because, really, what else does he expect me to do? But his tone changes then, and there’s a part of me that believes him.  
“I went to hell.”  
“Hell hell?”  
“Hell hell.”  
“Is that why I haven’t seen you?”  
He swallows, “Dad’s dead.”  
My hand jumps to cover my mouth. I had met John; he’d been a hard man – I hadn’t liked him – but Dean had worshipped him. No wonder he looked so broken, no wonder he felt like he’d been to hell and back.  
“Oh Dean, I’m sorry.”  
“Yeah.”  
  


Once I have everything prepped, I do my best to splint his hand – complete with a YouTube tutorial to help me along – I let him drink my single malt whiskey, I finish the bottle of rosé I had in the fridge – and then I just sit, and hold his bandaged hand, I let the silence grow until he decides whether or not to fill it.

“Have you read the bible?”  
“Bits of it, at school.”  
“You remember revelations?”  
“Kind of?”  
His good hand goes into his pocket and pulls out a ring. He sets it on the table.  
“I know you’ve always brushed passed the crap I come out with. But I did go to hell, literally. I sold my soul to a demon to bring my little brother back from the dead, and then an Angel rescued me – and now, I’m fighting the four horsemen of the apocalypse.” He nods at the ring, “That’s Wars ring.”  
And because there’s way too much in his words for me to deal with, I focus on the one I have a chance at understanding, “Sam died?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Okay.”  
“I died too, hell hounds ripped me apart.”  
“Before an Angel brought you back.” I say, trying to hold back on the sarcasm.  
He lifts his sleeve, and I see the weirdest fucking scar in the world.  
“Is that a…?”  
“A handprint. An angel’s handprint.”

And I am up off my chair and backing up into the counter without any control over my body.  
“Y/N…”  
I slowly make my way back towards him, I reach out and I touch the scar, and it… it feels real. And I see in his eyes that he believes it. And it’s crazy. And… I believe him. Or at least - I believe he believes it.  
“Can I help?”  
He smiles at me, but it’s sad, it’s oh so sad and it breaks me.  
“I think I’m beyond help.”  
“Where’s Sam?” I ask, because the last time we spoke about him, Sam had been at University.  
“We… we’ve gone our separate ways.”  
“So… you reconnected? Last I saw you…”  
“Yeah, uh, yeah. Dad… Dad went missing, and I went and got him from Stanford.”  
“Is that when John died?”  
“Sort of. It’s… it’s a long story. Can we just…” He pauses, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask anymore, even though he’s tracked me down and broken into my house and stood over my bed. So I say it for him.  
“Go to bed?”  
He nods, and I nod. And we go to bed. I don’t ask about the handprint again, or the tattoo on his chest, or the faint scar on his forehead, I just give him what he needs, and take what I need. When I wake up, he’s gone. If it wasn’t for the lingering smell in the air, the pleasant ache in my muscles, the empty bottles in the sink – I would think I’d dreamt him. When I am doing my grocery shopping later that day, I spend every spare penny I have on first aid equipment.  
  
**2011**

There’s a car idling outside my house. I should be asleep, but I can’t, and the rumbling engine isn’t helping. After a few minutes the engine dies, and I sigh in relief. I listen to a heavy car door slam and bury my face in the pillow, hoping that I will finally sleep. But then I hear a clink of metal and the jangling of a lock.

I hold my breath, because I want it to be my lock, I want it to be Dean. Even though I have seen his face on the news, even though I have seen undeniable proof that he and Sam went on a killing spree and died. Dean has died before, and he still slips into bed beside me uninvited but always welcome. A door groans, fabric rustles, and I hear my stairs creak with an unfamiliar weight. Next doors dog is going crazy and I wonder if I should be scared. Because it could be someone else. It could be my biggest regret that I haven’t reached for my phone to call for help. But I don’t.

And I’m glad, because when my door creaks open I get a whiff of blood and sweat and whiskey.  
“Hey.”  
“Hey stranger.” I can hear his smile. “How’ve you been?”  
I don’t reply, and he doesn’t ask again. I hear the clink of a belt and the gentle thump of clothing hitting the floor, and then he’s beside me, and the last two years melt away as his arms pull me into his chest.  
“Did you stop the horsemen?” I ask into his chest.  
“Yeah.”  
I want to ask, but I’m scared to. Once upon a time, Dean would ignore the apprehension stiffening my limbs, but he’s grown up, the act has melted away.  
“Still think I’m crazy?” He asks, and I sigh, because I am so glad to see him that I don’t want to ask, but I have to know.  
“Have you… have you heard of a book series called ‘Supernatural’?”  
And he groans, and I know I’m right.

I first found the series online, shortly after the last time I’d seen him. It seemed too much of a coincidence, so I’d ordered them all, and devoured them, and wondered. Convinced myself it was, that is wasn’t, that it was.  
“You read them?”  
I nod in the darkness, my cheek rubbing against his chest.  
“They’re true?”  
“Mostly.”  
“I’m not in them.” I tell him quietly, and I know I sound petty.  
“They tend to skip the good stuff.” I say nothing and he continues after a moment, his hands tracing my sides. “Everything is going to shit Y/N.”  
“More than before?”  
“More than before.” He confirms, and his hands stop their caresses, his fingers digging into my flesh like it grounds him.  
“I saw you and Sam on TV.” I hedge, and he picks up the narrative for me immediately.  
“Not us.”  
“Shape shifters?”  
“Leviathan.”  
“Huh?”  
“Don’t worry about it, it wasn’t us. I promise.”  
“I believe you.” I whisper, and I stoke his arms – and the raised handprint is gone.  
“Wait…” He draws away, “You saw all that, and you… you just let me into your bed? Y/N…”  
“I knew it couldn’t be you. And I read the books.”  
“You didn’t know they were real.” He snaps, and he sounds so angry that I flinch.  
“You came here!” I snap back, “What did you expect? Did you want me to try and stab you again? God damn it, Dean. What am I supposed to do?!”  
“I know, I know. Crap. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”  
And the words melt away because his lips are on mine, and when I can taste the salt of his tears I just kiss him harder. Because everything is fucked up, and those books are true, and there are monsters in this world worse than my darkest nightmares, and the man beside me – whose putting his life and soul into kissing me – has given up everything to fight them for me, for the world.

His kisses start to travel south, but I take his chin in my hand and stop him. I twist us over, pinning him to the bed, and even after all this time I can tell he loves to relinquish the control. I’ve been with other men over the years, of course I have, and I’ve never felt like the dominant one, never felt comfortable taking over. But with Dean… it’s something we both need and having him like putty beneath me – knowing that everything is in our minds – it’s beautiful. I have control because he gives it to me. If he wanted, he could do anything. He could overpower me in a heartbeat. But instead I press wet kisses down his chest. I twist his pubic hair between my fingers and give it a gentle tug as I lick and kiss and suck, and I tell him without words just how much I want him there.

He’s shaking when I’m done with him, and we’re both covered in a film of sweat. I lead him to the bathroom, intending to take care of him. But instead, he takes care of me. Once we’re in the steaming water of our bubble bath he shampoos, rinses, conditions, rinses my hair. He lets me soap him up, but when it’s his turn, he makes me come on his fingers, sucks, and bites at my neck so hard that my screams probably wake the whole street, and when he’s tucked me back in bed my neck is throbbing and swollen beneath my fingers. He’s asleep a long time before I am, but his shallow breaths and his hair in my fingers eventually sends me off to sleep.

When I wake up, he’s wrapped around me like a parasite, every limb tangled in mine. He’s still sleeping, snoring gently. He’s drooling a little, and it’s pooling between my breasts.

I try not to move, I just let him sleep. The crease between his brows is gone when he sleeps and he looks younger, he looks like he never went to hell. My heart aches for him, and I know he would hate me if he could feel the pity that swells inside me when I look at him. I stoke his brows, the beautiful angle of his nose, the full bow of his lips, and his long eyelashes flutter. And he’s awake. And I am full of regret.  
  
I don’t ask him if he’ll stay, but he explains himself anyway.  
“It’s Vegas week. A little tradition for Sam and me.”  
“Okay.”  
“I’ll swing by on my way back?”  
“Okay.”  
“Y/N.”  
“Dean.”  
“…Just… thank you.”  
“Any time.”  
  


**2014**

“Y/N. Wake up.”  
I whine, and open my eyes, staring blearily into the darkness.  
“Dean…?”  
I didn’t hear him, he’s kneeling beside me and I didn’t hear anything, and I suddenly feel very vulnerable, even though it’s only him.  
“I didn’t hear you.”  
“I didn’t want you to.”  
Something in his voice bothers me, and suddenly my mind is on shapeshifters and leviathan and demons. I grope for the lamp, but he beats me to it, and I’m blinded by warm light. It’s not just Dean. There’s another man stood in the corner of my room, his hands in his smart coat pockets. I tense.  
“Go,” Dean says over his shoulder, and then man rolls his eyes.  
“You never share.” Says the man, in a gravelly British accent, and then he… he vanishes. Like, straight up disappears. The tension doesn’t leave my shoulders, and I’m staring at Dean for answers I don’t want.  
“Sorry.” He says, and it’s superficial, and there’s something seriously wrong.  
“Dean… who was that?”  
“Long story. He’s… clingy, don’t worry about it.”  
“Worrying about it.”  
Dean sighs and stands up, starts unbuttoning his shirt.  
“It’s fine.”  
“It… it doesn’t seem fine…”  
He leans over and takes my chin in his hand, there’s a new scar on his arm. It’s weird, like a brand, I’ve never seen anything like it. “What happened?” I ask, stroking the scar as he strokes my chin and runs his thumb over my lips. But then his thumb slips past my teeth and he holds my jaw in place.  
“I’ll explain later.”  
He’s naked, climbing into bed and as much as I am pleased to see him, it all feels off. He’s climbing onto _my_ side of the bed, and his hold on my jaw is slightly too hard. I glance down and see that the anti-possession tattoo is still intact, and my mind goes to the silver necklace round my neck. He seems to know. Like he knows something is different, his thumb leaves my mouth, and he caresses my throat purposefully stroking the necklace. Reassuring me. His hand stills around my windpipe and our eyes meet.  
“Okay?” He asks, and it isn’t. I know it isn’t. He let a disappearing stranger into my room.  
“I don’t know…”  
“Then tell me to stop.”  
And his mouth is on mine and the creepy British dude vanishes from my mind, and I can’t tell him to stop, because _holy fuck_. His lips are hard on mine, our teeth clashing together, tongues fighting for dominance and I’m lost. I don’t know where he’s been these last three years, what horrors he’s faced, and at that moment I don’t care. Because he’s claiming every single inch of me like a wild animal. It’s rough, and there are moments where the pain threatens to overtake the pleasure, but I have never felt such desperate need, never felt so needed. He’s like a man possessed, not by a demon, but by unadulterated lust and it’s all I can do to hang on and chant his name as I’m sent over the edge again and again. Darkness roars up to meet me, and I am spent, a ragdoll in his hands, and he still doesn’t stop.

When I wake up I feel like I’ve been hit by a car. Everything hurts, everything is bruised, and Dean is propped up on his elbow, watching me, one hand coaxing its way up my thigh.  
“Good morning.”  
I look at the clock, and even turning my face hurts. It’s past lunchtime.  
“You’re not leaving?”  
“No. I thought I might stick around for the day.”  
My eyebrows knit and I stare at him, I can see that weird scar on his arm still, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but when his fingers stroke up my legs, my thighs part for him, and even though I’m sorer that I have ever been, I welcome his mouth when it finds mine – morning breath and all – and he rides me back into oblivion. Pain and pleasure blended together into the perfect escape.

It’s mid-afternoon when I remember how to utilise my brain, and he’s still beside me. He’s taken my hand in his, is stroking himself off with my fingers.  
‘He’s insatiable’ I think, as I smack my lips, desperate for a glass of water. I’m hungry too, but I’m so sore that I don’t think I can stomach anything. My arm is still moving back and forth, and he fucks himself with my hand. I watch, a spectator rather than a participant, and rather than his cock, I find myself watching the scar on his arm and it moves back and forth with our hands.  
“It’s the Mark of Cain.” He tells me, and I nod. “It killed me.”  
“Killed you?”  
He grins, and that fear comes back, but his hand – my hand – is quickening, and when he pushes my head down I forget my worries and swallow him down, letting him find his release in the back of my throat.

When we speak again, my eyes are still streaming, my throat clogged with the salty taste of him, my voice low and rough.  
“I died, Y/N. Again. It never seems to stick.”  
I curl into him, because I ache and because my default is to comfort him. His arm goes round my shoulder, his thumb strokes my goose-pimpled flesh, but instead of soothing me, it makes me feel like prey.  
“I don’t understand.” I admit.  
“Do you need to?”  
I pause, I think about it as much as I’m able to in my current state, and I decide that “No, I don’t.”  
“Okay.”  
“Okay.” I pause, “Dean…”  
“Yeah?”  
“I’m thirsty.”  
“Okay.”  
He leaves the room and he comes back with two cups of coffee and a pint glass of water, my hero.

I guzzle down the water and gasp when the glass is empty. Relishing clearing my throat and being able to breathe again. I frown when I notice his coffee. Dean has always taken his coffee black, no nonsense, no frills. Black coffee, no sugar, no fancy crap. But both mugs contained milky lattes, and I didn’t know which one was mine.  
“Either.” He says, reading my mind. Which is even weirder… because I have sugar in my coffee – Dean never has. And despite the fact I can tell him anything, I hold my tongue. Even for something as simple as a change in coffee preference, I have a sense that I shouldn’t ask.  
  


It’s growing dark again before he leaves, and for the first time in my life, amidst the disappointment, I am relieved.  
“Dean…” I begin as he heads to the door, he turns to look at me, a smile that isn’t his on his face.  
“Whatever’s going on… I just…” I can’t finish, but he knows – even with whatever is going on with him, he always knows.  
“I know.”  
  
But there’s a moment, when our eyes meet, and his are not the summer grass green I know, and I hope he never comes back.

**2020**

I jerk awake, my heart is pounding, and I spend a moment separating my nightmares from reality, but then I hear a sound downstairs and my body turns rigid. I wait, despite myself. But there’s no creak on the stairs. It’s happened a few times, the pipes have groaned, or I’ve mistaken a sound outside for inside, but I climb out of bed. I do it every time. I search the house, check the door, torn between dread and hope.

This time is different, because as I make my way blindly down the stairs I hear shallow panting.

I turn on the light, and it’s him. Because who else would it be.

But any fear I felt lingering from those black eyes that had bore into me last time morphs into a new kind of fear. Because he’s bleeding. Not a slice from his shoulder, or broken fingers, he’s in ribbons. He’s holding his organs in with one perilous hand, a large piece of wood sticking out from between his fingers.  
“Oh my god, Dean!”  
“It’s just a splinter.” He reassures me breathlessly, and I laugh manically. “A _splinter_?”  
“I just… I didn’t…”  
_I didn’t know where else to go._  
“You need a hospital!”  
“Y/N… please…”  
I have questions, of course I do. But all but one fade into insignificance seeing him like this.  
“Look at me.”  
His eyes meet mine, and he’s him. Or I think he is. But I can’t meet his eyes for long. I’m torn. I want to help him, but I can’t. Not until I’m sure. I know I can’t move him regardless, so I jog to the kitchen to get my first aid kit, and as I throw it onto the kitchen worktop I head to the pantry and I retrieve the holy water. At least, I hope it’s holy water. I had followed all the instructions I had found online, cross-referenced them with Carver Edlund’s books.

He’s still on the floor in my hallway, my front door is ajar, and there is a growing puddle of blood.  
He’s barely conscious, and I don’t know if I need to keep him awake or let him slip into oblivion, but I still splash him with holy water first. He screws up his face but nothing seems to happen, and I take that for what it is, hoping my holy water was the real stuff. I’m too scared to do this on my own, so I try to keep him awake. But even with a real first aid kit and my limited experience, I know I can’t do this. Am I supposed to try and pull it out? What if it breaks? What if it’s plugging up something major and he bleeds to death in my hallway? My phone is upstairs, so I search his pockets. I find his phone. I go to dial emergency services and his hand stills me.  
“Alex.”  
“Alex?”  
“Alex.”  
I look through his phone for an Alex, they’re near the top, and I don’t give a fuck what time it is. I hit the call button.

The voice the answers is young, groggy.  
“Hello?”  
“Alex?!”  
“Yes…?”  
“Alex! Dean is hurt! He’s seriously hurt! He told me to call you! I don’t know what to do! Help me!”  
“Where is he?!”  
I real off my address, barely registering my words because his hand had fallen from his stomach, he’s unconscious and his guts are spilling out and I’m on the phone to a fucking tween.  
Alex is letting out a string of curse words,  
“Face time me.”  
I do. And I’m met by a dark-haired, pale-faced girl whose as scared as I am, but determined not to show it. I turn the camera around, I show her the state he’s in, my meagre suppliers, I beg for help. I beg to call an ambulance.  
“I’ll call an ambulance.” She promised, “But in the meantime, you gotta stabilise him…!”  
I follow her instructions, I can hear an older woman in the background directing the ambulance. But I try and tune everyone but Alex out. I apply pressure, I wad bandages, I try to wake him. I try everything (on her orders) I coax him; I slap him, I kiss him (she didn’t order that one), he stirs a little, mutters a few words. I catch ‘Sam’, something that sounds like ‘Cas’, and ‘Y/N’, I hear him mutter my name.  
“Dean…” I’m sobbing now, I can’t help it, I don’t care about the women on the other end of the phone. Why did he come here? Like this?  
The ambulance arrives, and the emergency services take over, but I am in the ambulance with them, in my revealing summer pyjama’s. Alex stays with me on the screen of Dean’s phone until his phone dies. I buy a phone charger from the hospital shop that costs me a fortune and find a seat in the waiting room near a plug, I call Alex back, and she says her Mum is on the way, Sam is on the way. I have never met Sam, and yet I know him as soon as he walks through the sliding doors four hours later.  
“Sam?”  
“Y/N?”  
“Yes, Yeah, It’s me. Hi! Oh god…!” And it spills out of me, and Sam’s face goes a sickly shade of green, and words escape me without permission.  
“He told me he’s died before, that it doesn’t stick. He’ll be okay? Right?”  
Sam is quiet, silent. And I selfishly evaluate my entire life. I have known Dean for twenty years, and from the moment he broke into my house sixteen years ago; I have never let another man share my bed. I have had relationships, sure. But they were never allowed to stay. That privilege was reserved, withheld from others, because I never wanted Dean to turn up and be unable to slide up beside me.  
A gorgeous blonde woman turns up, distractedly introduces herself to me as Donna and vanishes. Sam and I sit in silence for over an hour. I have thought about Sam a lot over the years, but no questions come to mind. I don’t care about the devil, or that John’s dead, or if he ever mentioned me, or that he had black eyes the last time I saw him. It all falls away into petty bullshit.

Then the Doctor is there, and he’s… thanking me? Saying I did a good job, and I try to explain that it was Alex, and Donna is hugging me, and then Sam is hugging both of us. The Doctor says he’s stable, that we can see him – and Sam goes, without a second thought, and Donna is still holding me together.  
“Heard a lot about ya Y/N.” She says – almost cheerfully – “Jeez, I don’t know how you do it missy.”  
“What?” I ask, confused, distracted, “He… talks about me…?”  
“Well Of course!” She exclaims, staring at me, just as confused as I am. But then Sam is back, and he’s gesturing me forwards.  
“He’s awake.”  
  


I walk in, and all my fear and trepidation melts, not because he’s okay, but because he’s awake and I am furious,  
“Don’t you ever do that to me ever again!” I say in greeting, ignoring the fact that Sam – and possibly Donna – had followed me into his room. I storm over and despite my words I’m touching his face. His arms, his hands, and that stupid mark of Cain is gone, and I collapse onto the seat beside his bed, head in my hands, fresh tears springing to my eyes.  
“I hate you.” I tell him, staring at his cracked lips and pale skin, and the bandages obscuring his bare chest,  
“I know you do.”  
He spread out his arms, and I tumble into them despite everything, he harrumphs in pain, but folds his arms around me anyway, stroking back my hair as I bury my face in his neck., and I can feel Sam frowning down at us and I don’t care.

It might not be today, or tomorrow. But when the world is safe and Dean is free, he will find himself in my bed, and when he has no reason to leave, I will keep him there. I should get a bigger first aid kit.   
  
  



End file.
